Well, I'll be darned. It's worked. In the past I have tried to upload photos to the blog and have had no luck at all. Time outs, sullen refusals,' no speaka da inglis' - so much so that I gave up. The moon must be in the right quarter (waning) for here is Fern in all her pink glory sitting on the fence. Despite the appearance of that little cleft in her chest she is not overweight (not like some galah I could mention, mmmm Marvin?). It's a trick of the light for although she cannot fly (broken right wing, you can see it hangs strangely, broken at the joint), she is an active little thing and keeps her girlish figure.
Fern was the first galah who came to live with us. She was a young adult, not a juvenile and she taught me an awful lot about birds and galahs in particular. She took a long time to convince that we were actually on her side and wouldn't hurt her. Had her in a cocky cage set up in the dining area. I tempted her with sunflower seeds on a wooden spoon. Eventually she came around and although she is very opinionated and will nip without hesitation to show her displeasure, she is also very affectionate. It is only in the past year that I have been able, sometimes, to touch her anywhere but her head. I'm not sure but I think she's lived with us for about 9 years.
When we sit in our chairs with our respective drinks in the late afternoon after the chores we allow all the galahs out of the aviaries to have a pick and an explore. Marvin always bustles over first to have a preening session. Because he is so aggressive to the other birds he has to live in an aviary by himself. His aviary is right next to the 'girls' (although Obama is male, the only male living with the girls, we call it the girls, perhaps because he was the last addition) so he can see them. But he has no one to preen him. When he's had enough he asks to be put down on the ground and then, if Fern is nearby, she lifts her skirts and runs toward me. It's not that she's so anxious to see me, Fern is just a sprinter in spirit. She is the fastest galah on foot I've ever seen - and it does look as though she lifts her skirts (wings) so that they won't impede her while she gallops. The others just run without any rearranging of wings.
I have finished the Hahn's macaw and will try to get a picture of it up here tomorrow. I have it in the office with me now. It's at the stage that while it is *finished* I have to live with it awhile to see if any bits stand out as unfinished, overdone or incorrect. So far so good. Although it is a drawing from a picture and not something out of my head, I am well pleased with it. It has taught me alot about looking. I have a new appreciation for the feathering of my own birds and see them in a new more informed light.
Because I retire in 9 months I have been thinking about forming good retirement habits. It's been many years since I haven't worked. I have fallen into the trap of defining myself by my job and have worried a little about the bruising to my ego when I can no longer say I am a vet nurse. Ridiculous I know but there it is. There were times in my life when I didn't work and the days were filled with creativity. I painted and wrote and never seemed to waste time as I seem to now. Using free time well takes discipline. I could fritter it away with frothy busy-ness or use it constructively. Sometimes I get a sense of the fragility of life. It is a miracle that I'm alive, even for this brief butterfly wing beat of life. How many billions of people have lived before me who no longer draw breath? With a few rare exceptions they are forgotten, dust motes in a sunbeam. And I will join them. If there is something after death will I remember this life and berate myself for having taken it so lightly? Acting as though I would live forever and have all the time in the world? It is patently obvious I won't. Obvious now that I'm on the downward track. I suppose it's a part of aging that you think about time running out. Seems that almost every day R has another story about someone he knows ill or dying or dead. Our peers are starting to drop.
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